Amazingly, Sinbad isn't drunk.

He's entirely sober when Ja'far feels those bright, golden eyes on him, following the way he bends and moves. It's disconcerting, to a point. Ja'far doesn't like being watched—it makes him nervous, and makes him wonder of next moves and full intentions and—

"Has anyone ever told you how lovely you are, Ja'far?"

It makes his eyes roll towards the ceiling. "Only you," is the flat retort to follow. Only Sinbad, for the past two years, and really, who else would and why should I care? He's an odd bird in nearly every country they visit—pale and light haired and freckled, easily burnt by the desert sun and thus constantly burrowing himself beneath layers. No one gets a good look, and even if they did, it isn't something they care to see.

"That's a shame. I'll just say it more often, then!"

Standard Sinbad logic, that. Ja'far wants to protest, because it isn't necessary, he doesn't need or want to hear it, but Sinbad is faster, his hands warmer, his lips softer when they press against Ja'far's own, and annoyance turns to a sort of fluttery anxiety, a lingering fear of the unknown and why me, why bother, I'm not a woman and I'm not sure I even like this sort of thing and—

"Let me." It's a plead, not an order, and Ja'far wavers.


The question makes Sinbad rock back onto his heels a bit. "Ah. Well, because I want to make you feel good, and—"

"I feel fine already."

"… It's a different kind of good."

"Assuming I enjoy it," Ja'far matter-of-factly replies, and Sinbad sighs, raking a hand back through his bangs.

"Just once," he pleads, and his face is in Ja'far's neck again, nuzzling, his lips parting to nip, to gently suck, and Ja'far can't argue that there are shivers going down his spine, that his toes are curling a bit in his shoes and he sort of wants to reach for Sinbad's hair and pull him in closer. "Just once, please—"

He sounds like a man starved, and Ja'far feels his resolve waver just a bit more.

In the end, Ja'far lets him. It's good, not great, and he has to wonder why Sinbad is so addicted to things like this, to sweaty, slick bodies grinding against one another, to wandering hands that can be too rough or to teeth that leave marks that Ja'far knows he'll be embarrassed of in the morning. He's not sure of the allure of having anything inside, because it hurts at its best, leaves him feeling pathetically weak and helpless and overwhelmed at worst, but god, Sinbad seems to enjoy having him splayed beneath him, legs spread wide and trembling, chest heaving and an arm thrown over his face so he doesn't have to look at Sinbad's expressions, doesn't have to think so much about what his own face is doing when he comes undone.

"God, let's do that again sometime," Sinbad sighs, and Ja'far wonders what he's made of, to finish and then want more so quickly.

"Can we… not?" At least, not so damnably soon.

One would think he kicked a puppy.